


Apocrypha

by Paradigm_F



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Angst, Blight Lore, Body Horror, Dubious Science, Epistolary, F/M, Horror, Kirkwall (Dragon Age), Modern Character in Thedas, Mystery, Post-Awakening, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Tranquility, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2019-07-08 03:40:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15922148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paradigm_F/pseuds/Paradigm_F
Summary: A strange journal in an unreadable language surfaces in the Inquisition's archive. Just one more dubious discard rescued from the rubble of the Kirkwall Circle, it is filed away and promptly forgotten. Until someone takes up the task of deciphering it.The story of the unlikely kinship between two women thrown into Thedas from different worlds, and kept apart by distance and history, but whose lives interweave on the pages of a forgotten textual artifact.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [viscera (VisceralComa)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VisceralComa/gifts), [Othanas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Othanas/gifts).



> For [Thanatosia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thanatosia/pseuds/Thanatosia) and [VisceralComa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VisceralComa/pseuds/VisceralComa)  
> in response to Thanatosia's horror prompt.

******_Inventory entry # 189. One leatherbound journal, 56 pages_**  
**_Status: Partial burn damage._**  
**_Origin: Kirkwall Circle. Delivered to the Inquisition Archive on [date illegible] by Commander Rutherford._**  
**_Characteristics: Language unknown — presumed cypher._**  
**_Tasks: Translation  
_ _Priority: Low_**

**17 Harvestmere, 9:33 Dragon**

Tranquils are invisible.

Though that, in itself, is inaccurate. Our invisibility is a matter of some labor. By default, we are hypervisible — so much so that our presence repels the gaze, snagging it for a few uncomfortable seconds until it slides off our skin into the safety of false inattention. In this, we have something in common with the beggars and cripples of Darktown, minus the bodily indignities, which we do not suffer in quite the same register.

Let me backtrack. When I say we, it should be clear that my case is a peculiar one, for a number of reasons that I will strive to communicate as succinctly as I can, since the purpose of this log is not to document my life in the Kirkwall Circle, but to situate the interpreter of the texts collected in this folio and presented to you, my unlikely interlocutor.

Allow me a brief digression, whoever you might be (so far, no one is capable of reading Finnish — it gives me hope that this journal shall remain relatively private, and that I thereby can afford a certain degree of freedom with what I can entrust to it). If my prose appears somewhat stilted, it is not the result of my recent condition. The Rite of Tranquility changed nothing, as far as I am able to detect — safe for some disruptions to my sleep cycle, inconsequential so far. It has not been long, but I am, from what I gather, exactly as I was.

It does pose a curious riddle about contemporary life in this part of Thedas. Why are there not more counterfeit tranquils? We would make for ideal spies. All one needs is a reasonably credible brand, and a reasonably credible actor.

But I should not waste time, parchment, and ink on questionable asides — though I admit that the relatively more liberal dispensation of all three by our ever vigilant overseers is one of the advantages of my new social role — so let me return to the matter at hand. My original name will be of no interest to you — but for the sake of record keeping, you may refer to me simply as Senna. The details of my relocation matter very little — suffice it to say that I had recent confirmation that I am not alone in my peculiar predicament. I suppose it is a phenomenon that happens from time to time, for reasons I am certainly ill-equipped to evaluate. The only piece of my past that might be of interest, in the highly unlikely event that one such as I would chance upon these writings and have the capacity to interpret them, is the matter of dates: my last day on Earth was the 2nd of February, 1946. Thus, if such things matter to you, or if my history has any relevance to your own temporal origins, exactly three years after Stalingrad fell, and two years after the Allied Forces capitulated. This is where one customarily inserts things like "Sieg Heil" -- care that you don't forget, lest someone comes knocking at midnight -- but here, at least, I am spared such displays. 

If there is one thing that I do dearly miss, it is my typewriter.

Before we begin, indulge me in one last preface. No one assigned me to this particular task — I have taken it upon myself to occupy my spare time, of which I now have a redoubled amount considering my dwindling need for sleep. My official role is to systematize the documents entrusted to me — and certainly not to transcribe, reflect on them, let alone analyze them. I believe they are meant to be lost and forgotten, just like the thousands of other records this Circle keeps, but locks away for the mice to nibble on.  

I suppose that each of us rebels in the ways we have been allotted by whatever forces make such decisions.

I am certain that my hypothetical reader — and I hope you forgive me this dialogical indulgence, but even my relatively modest need for social interaction finds itself challenged in this austere place — will, upon realizing what they have in their hands, promptly understand why a Tranquil (“Tranquil”) was given the task to handle these documents. It is pure coincidence, of course, that this particular Tranquil has some fortuitous and seemingly incidental facility for decryption.

Thus ends my introduction. From here, let us move to the matter proper.

I will begin with an inventory, and take the opportunity to say a few words about methodology. First, it should be noted for the record that both types of documents in my care — the coded journal and the official correspondence — have been severely damaged. I have restored what I could to the best of my abilities, but certain passages remain illegible, and elude my efforts. Second, I know full well that the peculiarities of my own character — and of the interpretive lens I shall furnish here — may leave you, dear reader, with unresolved questions. I am not able to gauge whether you will find what is presented below uncomfortable. I will, therefore, let the texts bear witness to themselves, but you will encounter my occasional marginalia whenever I deem it required.

Thus, inventory.

  1. A black leather-bound journal (drakeskin, I suspect), 20x14 cm, Antivan-made if the parchment is any indication, containing [ _illegible_ ] entries, spanning the period of roughly three months between [ _illegible_ ] 9:31 Dragon and [ _illegible_ ] of the following year.    
  2. Ten letters, encrypted, addressed to Warden-Commander Elissa Cousland, originating in Monts[ _illegible_ ]. Only one of these ten letters bears a broken seal. My hypothesis, which I will present below, is that the correspondence is between Cousland and [ _illegible_ ].



~~Curiously enough,~~

This will have to wait until later. I have lost track of time, and I must not forget my other duties. The records of the last shipment should be completed by midday at the latest, otherwise there will be unwanted questions.


	2. Chapter 2

**18 Harvestmere, 9:33 Dragon**

I should have written the thought I had when I had it, for it eludes me now.

A most unpleasant day, but it is over. I notice that my fellow Tranquil do not experience my sleeping difficulties, which suits me well in regards to this work. The biggest risk are the templars. I am grateful that my physical appearance does not seem to draw the eyes of the more lascivious-minded among their ranks. For the most part, I am as invisible inside these walls as I am outside of them. Besides, there is a system to their occasional “sampling.” Certain patterns emerge over time — it does not require great intellectual prowess to understand the unspoken rules of what constitutes acceptable “misconduct” among our “protectors.”

I had sought to share my observations with some of the women I thought more likely to fall prey to their amorous appetites, but my suggestions were met with calm indifference.

It is what it is. I am chagrined by the amount of time and space I waste on these unnecessary diatribes — there is such a thing as too much self-reflection. I shall correct this by letting the following entries speak for themselves.

**Journal Entry 1** , date illegible [blood stain in top left corner affects most of the pages. I infer the timeline by cross-referencing events with the information I gleaned from the letters, but this method is imperfect, as you may imagine].

 

> _“L,_
> 
> _You will be pleased to know that your parting gift has served me well._
> 
> _It’s done. Frankly, I expected worse. Oghren aside, I can tell the rest of them weren’t too happy with the decision, but in that moment, it felt mad not to accept the creature’s offer. I hesitate to call it a “he” — such false familiarity collapses a distance I would rather maintain. Its capacity for language and complex thought — its ability to act with clear purpose — shouldn’t erase the sheer alienness of what it is._
> 
> _And yet… I can’t decide whether thinking of them as persons is intellectually useful or terribly dangerous. I’m still not sure I know what sentience means for their kind, but wringing my hands over this won’t solve anything. There is work to be done, and for now at least, I don’t need to answer that particular question._
> 
> _There is, of course, a very specific reason I accepted its offer of “truce,” aside from the possibility of a cure and the promise of resources. And, to be frank, aside from my desire to avoid more bloodshed and to risk the lives of friends and comrades. A reason that I shouldn’t admit to, especially on paper, and especially to you, though I wager you can guess it well enough. But we agreed on a failsafe, and, should anything happen — don’t argue, we are both old enough to understand what precarious, fallible beings we are — you will have a record of my thoughts. I have little else to give you — the rest of me is yours already._
> 
> _So. The reasons. I will keep it abstract. If more can be learned about their remarkable fertility, then we must seek to understand it better. Minimally, to use it against them. And ideally, to solve the problems that plague us — and I mean this capaciously. This is the gambit — and the risk — that those in my profession sometimes take. I hoped I would never be in this position, but I suppose one always ends up encountering what one wishes to avoid the most._
> 
> _I will write more tomorrow. Today was largely unproductive — though it involved a bath. I no longer smell of that horrid mixture of rosewater and rotting meat. The olfactory experience seems unique to me — the other Wardens do not report the same rancid overlay, which is curious, but likely of no immediate relevance. All the same, I am glad not to have ichor in my hair, and to have clean sheets to fall into. Though I would trade them in a heartbeat for the hard ground of our camp, if it would mean to have you beside me._
> 
> _May your sleep be dreamless, whenever and wherever it claims you._
> 
> _E.”_

  
Thus ends the first entry. I presume there was a letter accompanying it — perhaps this is a transcription of this letter, of perhaps an elaboration on it. There is a meticulousness to Cousland that I can appreciate, and I believe there was a method to what she was doing. I hear footsteps, so the next entry wil _[writing smudged]_


	3. Chapter 3

**21 Harvestmere, 9:33 Dragon**

I am able to continue my work undetected, at least for now. The Circle is busy with preparations. A new “batch” — it seems rather terribly crass to assign such quantitatively utilitarian terms to people, but it is precisely how we are treated here — a new “batch” of “fresh mages” is scheduled to either undergo their Harrowing or submit to the Rite by end-week. I have not yet been able to glean whether there is a system to when these events are held, but I have noticed a relationship between lyrium delivery dates and Harrowings. I will have to examine the numbers when I am able and perhaps graph them over time. I am almost certain there has been a slow but steady increase, and I would be interested in seeing what this increased consumption for lyrium correlates with, if anything.

(Another thought. The Harrowings are decided upon quickly, from above, and with very little warning.)

I should note, too, that the _en masse_ nature of these procedures may very well be a new development. Sheldon, who has been here the longest, claims these are recent changes, but I am hesitant to believe him. Older Tranquil seem to experience a sharp deterioration in their memory over time — much more tangible than their non-Tranquil counterparts. I suspect it has something to do with the relationship between memory and the Fade.

I do not know whether this will affect me also, but I am already taking precautionary measures by incorporating journaling into my daily habits. It would seem that so did “Elissa Cousland.” I do wonder who she was beneath the mask this world forced over her own history.

**Journal Entry 2** , date illegible

> _Your letter arrived yesterday to great corvid fanfare. The local ravens are not overly fond of our toiling messengers. You can hear the ruckus all the way in the library, thick walls notwithstanding. There is one bird in particular — I suspect a young male — who has elected residence on my windowsill and is continuously begging for treats. It tried to steal the brandy Oghren left for “safekeeping” — I am still trying to puzzle out whether the joke’s on me, or on him._
> 
> _I must admit, your depiction of the latest news from the court, laconic and to the point as it is, does not exactly tempt me to return. I hope that the distance afforded to you by Montsimmard allows for some perspective. Allow me my pound of self-indulgent gloating — have we not discussed your daughter and her (quite understandable) lack of desire to be puppeteered from the shadows by an eminence grise, however benevolent? I know accepting the back-handed flattery of your child being capable of independent thinking is hard, but strive to be your best self and all that. Let it go. You are far from Ferelden, and she will do just fine. (This is where you should envision me saying ‘I told you so’ in the most self-satisfied and infuriating tone possible, yes)._
> 
> _You ask how I fare. I think I have what I need to begin. Vigil’s Keep still stands — the loss of research would have been catastrophic, and I can’t afford to start over, not now that I think I know how to approach this. But first, I must let the Keep settle. You’ve teased me about my impatience (as I recall, each time you had me at a disadvantage), but here I am the epitome of restraint. I work at night. The younger Howe is still here — I suppose he does have some proprietary feelings about the place. I find him to be surprisingly decent company, unlike his late father. (Ah, but I can picture your frown — don’t worry, I hold no rancor — well, almost no rancor — and no, you have no reason for jealousy.) Most of my “retinue,” to borrow the wording from your missive, are drifting away — some on Warden business, others as far away from it as possible._
> 
> _The laboratory isn’t much of one, but I shouldn’t complain. I suspect my woes over the lack of basic equipment (let it be stated for the record that I would go up against another Archdemon if it would get me a centrifuge…I explain what it is in the post scriptum, should curiosity strike you) are going to pale against the demands placed on you by “Le Jeu.” Though I think you will be pleased to learn that both of us are weaving tangled webs. And if my string-pulling is successful, I should be able to begin the experiments quite soon._
> 
> [added in a different ink, though the handwriting seems to belong to the same person]
> 
> _I realize the irony of this exercise, you know. If you are reading these lines,_  
>  ~~_I am likely  
>  _ ~~ ~~_If something should happen to me_ _,  
>  _~~ ~~_If that is the case, then_ ~~
> 
> _This journal should contain enough details on how to replicate what I am undertaking — have someone transcribe the relevant parts._

Thus ends the second entry, and I fear this is it for today.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**25 Harvestmere, 9:33 Dragon**

I should note that this is the eighth night when I seem entirely unable to sleep, but so far this deprivation has not affected my ability to transcribe. Tomorrow, I will see the alchemist for a sedative. The window in our dormitory is small, but it is a blissfully rainy morning in Kirkwall. I still find the hot arid climate profoundly unpleasant.

I have been summoned to assist First Enchanter Orsino with some matter concerning tomorrow’s Harrowings — I thus only have time for one entry before I must make myself indispensable.

Being dispensable is proving unsafe.

**Journal Entry 3** [still the same problem of illegibility, the stain is too extensive. I would date it to Solis 9:31 Dragon.]

> _In the absence of more recent news from you, I shall simply continue from the previous entry. The first, preliminary experiments have been completed. I wish I could report success, but I cannot. There is a long list of reasons I could give you for why the specimens we captured do not make for good model organisms. (I know this concept will seem odd to you — please refer to the postscriptum). The alteration is too profound. I think we should think of them as different species._ _Not_ _a derivative of what we know, but something else entirely._
> 
> _Let me pause for a moment — I know this is an indulgence, but I trust you will forgive me. My concept of species and yours do not match — indeed, cannot match. We originate in radically different environments, you and I. For you, otherness is absolute. For me, it is negotiable. You are, first and foremost, a general. (I saw it well enough at Ostagar.) I am a scientist. You seek simple solutions when none exist. I seek complex solutions where too many present themselves. With all that in mind, you must try to understand my outlook if there is any hope for this project to go forward — and you might find yourself in the situation where you inherit it, for better or for worse._
> 
> _I experimented with the formula provided by our unexpected collaborator, but something must be missing. I do not believe the oversight was intentional._
> 
> _I know we agreed not to discuss it, but if you find this once I am no longer able to offer further explanations, make sure this gets to Avernus. He is an objectionable little creep, but I trust him to actually understand what I'm doing._
> 
> _Any news from M., I wonder?_
> 
> _Words come with difficultly today, and my mind is too scattered for a consistent report. More tomorrow._
> 
> _At least Oghren's brandy is proving useful in the sleeping department._

I will return to writing later, if circumstances permit. At present, I shall go demonstrate my utility.

  



	5. Chapter 5

**27 Harvestemere, 9:32 Dragon**

[Written in a cipher]

I will write of the "procedure" (forgive my euphemism, kind reader) next time. As it stands, I have very little energy to spare for such undertakings. Still, there is work to do, and more urgent questions to record.

Alarming developments are afoot, but I cannot yet grasp the whole picture. What are they doing? Edmond and Aruna were two of the brightest students, and Redna, their primary instructor, would have never dabbled in blood magic. She was far too intelligent for that — and if she did, she would not have gotten caught, I am certain of it. I cannot help but feel a certain sense of loss at the vacant look the two children exchange as they pass each other in the halls now.

It is unclear to me where Redna is. Her name is recorded, confirming the Rite, but she has not joined us in the dormitory. It has been two days.

Who else is recorded, but unaccounted for?

 **Journal Entry 4**  

> _Still no news from you. I hope that my letters are arriving._
> 
> _It is still easier for me to write to an addressee — and invoking your hypothetical future copresence with these pages helps me focus my thoughts. But familiar as you are, I fear that what comes below — my work — will only remind us both that we are, necessarily, strangers — cannot be anything but strangers. My thoughts tend to wander, and their wanderings won’t make much sense to you — I will condense, towards the end, for the sake of replicability. But if this journal is retroactively posthumous, I would have you comprehend the distance between your world and mine. It is not reconcilable or negotiable, this gap. It will always remain, no matter what other intimacies we have managed to conjure. And if you are reading this, then take solace in the fact of this distance, and should you experience my absence as loss, take refuge in our incommensurability._
> 
> [In a different ink.]
> 
> _I do have some results to report. Failure turns into virtue so easily if your aim is research — (much less so with my residual shreds of Hippocrates, who, I fear, is long past oaths, and full well into swearing.) None of the herbal formulas we tried have demonstrable results, but, without proper equipment, I am reduced to crass empiricism. More relevantly — and more urgently — I have news from our unexpected collaborator. And this brings me to the point of this specific entry._
> 
> _As it turns out — I doubt this will surprise you — our Darkspawn foil-turned-uneasy-ally has more than a single laboratory. His contact approached me last week, when the Keep was especially quiet. She extended a rather unexpected invitation. I am debating. The offer is, as they say, too good to refuse — which makes me think I can do nothing but refuse it. But they do seem genuine in their intent._
> 
> _I wish I could query you for advice. Even if I know what your response would be, I wish I could hear it voiced — if for no other reason than auditory pleasure._
> 
> _I am still trying to wrap my mind around our dubious ally’s lifespan. What has he been doing all these centuries? Research? With unlimited time at his disposal, all the test subjects he might wish, and the single-minded focus of a zealot — how has he not stumbled upon a cure? Does it not exist? What has limited the effort? Is there some crucial piece of technology missing?_

Nota Bene: I cannot confirm this, of course, not with any certainty, although the letter is incriminating enough. I have tried to puzzle out the identity of Cousland’s addressee. Only one possibility occurs to me, but I find it so highly implausible, given the stories about the enmity between the Hero of Ferelden and Mac Tir, that I am of a mind to dismiss this supposition out of hand.

  



	6. Chapter 6

**29 Harvestmere, 9:32 Dragon**

Forgive these rushed notes, hypothetical reader. Today I can offer little clarity.

I was called into the First Enchanter’s office. I had not felt true terror since the early days of the air raids, and I must admit I wasn’t sure I was still capable of it. 

You must understand, there is no reason for a Tranquil to socialize with a First Enchanter — on the rare occasions that Orsino turns his gaze to the pragmatics of institutional maintenance, orders are never communicated directly. This is what the roster in the central dormitory is for. Tranquil can go days without being spoken to. 

I was certain he had discovered my illicit transcriptions. If he thought anything of my surprise at his offer of tea, he did not comment. We sat in silence until the verses of the Chant drifted on the evening breeze. 

Orsino’s office is airy and bright. The afternoon light is lovely.

I hesitate to call it a conversation. When he finally broke our silent stalemate, he asked uncomfortable questions about my origins — naturally, I offered him the ready-made story, one so typical it is instantly forgettable. It is a lesson I learned early, and it has served me well in Thedas too. To be bland, to be utterly unremarkable, to be the sort of person whose face and name are lost the second they are encountered, drowned in a sea of a thousand others just like it is the only type of safety someone like me can hope for.

I marvel at Cousland, as only one faced with one’s antipodal opposite can marvel. How did she survive for as long as she did?

I hope there will be no more invitations from the First Enchanter. His final inquiry has me concerned. He asked if I had been acquainted with Redna. I could not tell you exactly why I lied, though he seemed satisfied with my display of indifference.

I have wasted enough time. Transcription awaits.

**Journal Entry 5**

> _ Difficult to believe a month has already passed since I last wrote something addressed to you directly. Still no news. Before I left Vigil’s Keep, I set up a system of relays: should a letter arrive, it will eventually reach me. _
> 
> _ Emotional displays will have to wait until the next time I am able to write — I have little time between experiments, so I will stick to practical matters this time. _
> 
> _ I have a proper laboratory now, and some instruments I did not think I would see again in whatever lifespan remains to me here. A microscope. No, better, several microscopes — slightly different designs. Tevinter’s approach is more elegant, but the apparatus is ridiculously finicky, and the focus drifts if you so much as breathe on it wrong. The dwarven version is less aesthetically pleasing, and less flexible, but much more reliable at greater magnification.  _
> 
> _ This will not make much sense to you, I am afraid, but I have made what I think is a groundbreaking discovery. Darkspawn cellular structure is prokaryotic. They are  _ _ multicellular prokaryotic organisms. _
> 
> _ I wish I could share with you what this means, that you would understand how completely unprecedented this is, how much it upends everything I thought I knew about Life itself.  _
> 
> _ More of this in the endnotes. Avernus might offer you an explanation if you are able to find a way to get past his irascibility. _
> 
> _ My unlikely collaborator has been… a challenge, but I believe a productive one. He is, despite his profound Otherness (I truly mean this in its most profound sense), surprisingly… I lack the words. Courteous, I suppose.  _
> 
> _ Like me, he keeps odd hours — perhaps a byproduct of subterranean life.  _
> 
> _ If there is one thing I miss, it is sunlight, but A has taken to levitating a glowing orb beneath the ceiling while I work. The light spectrum is a decent mimic of your sun, though not of mine. Nevertheless, it is a kindness, and I have been agonizing over how to thank him. He is a creature of remarkably few needs. _

I will transcribe Cousland’s endnotes next time. It should prove informative. I wonder how much more advanced the science of her  _ when _ is, compared to mine.


	7. Chapter 7

**7 Firstfall,** **9:32 Dragon**

Yesterday afternoon was the fourth time that I have been summoned into Orsino’s presence over the last week. On the three previous occasions, he asked me to perform some menial task — some translation of an Antivan herbal,* cheaply printed and, from what I could tell, of little merit besides, one step up from a cookbook, really. He insisted that I work at his desk. He sat in his armchair at the window, pretending to read, while I performed his bizarre assignment.

[*Antivan has, from what I can tell, the phonetics of some of Earth’s romance languages, but that is where the similarities end. The syntax of most Thedosian languages is strikingly different from anything I have encountered. It is, perhaps, one of the strangest aspects of my presence here — understanding speech is a matter of attention, or what the mages here call “will.” Reading and writing is not dissimilar, but the techniques are slightly different. In any case, to be able to hear Meaning beneath the words, I must strategically forget that I do not, in fact, understand their dialects. I have been able to “will” myself into hearing how the locals _really_ sound only once. I feared that my Tranquility would erase this one clear manifestation of what we might think of as “magic” — I had few skills in that department otherwise — but, fortunately for me, it did not.]

This most recent (fourth) time, the First Enchanter dispensed with the excuses. I cannot fathom why he would wish _this_ of me — surely not out of anything like lust, let alone emotional infatuation. I am, kind reader, no great beauty. When younger (though guessing my age presents some difficulties for Thedosians), I was, at best — to use Isaac’s words, may God rest his soul — memorable. Much of that has been smoothed away over the years.

~~It wasn’t~~

I am not sure why I feel compelled to commit this to writing, but the distinction seems important: it is nothing like the unwanted attentions of the Templars.

I could have, if I wished, said no.

Like most men in a position of responsibility, but no real power, Orsino is not a generous lover, but we are, I suppose, surprisingly well-matched. I think he was a little disconcerted, though pleased, that his enjoyment was not one-sided.

Afterwards, we shared wine (one of the acrid white vintages Nevarra prides itself in). He talked — of banal things, mostly. I hardly remember the content. I was waiting for the opportunity to leave — the thunderstorm over Kirkwall had darkened the evening into night quicker than usual, and I was eager to return to my transcribing. There was a moment where he looked like he was going to query me over something that made him uneasy — but he steered away from it. Instead, he asked, with a peculiar amalgam of hopefulness and self-loathing, whether I would be willing to return to see him. I reminded him of the dangers of such entanglements, and he agreed, though I think reluctantly.

 

> **_Journal Entry 6_ **
> 
> ~~_I should_ ~~
> 
> _We have found another brood-mother, “A” and I, in one of the blind outcrops of an abandoned thaig. It is much smaller than the one we put down, and not sentient — or, rather, not sentient in any way that matters. We are back almost daily — to collect tissues, and, in my case, to observe (I try to cause her — and I use the pronoun deliberately — minimal discomfort). She is in the early stages of gestation. I can almost see the person she used to be, before the alteration — a “human,” I think, though it is difficult to say for certain. “A” is able to control the swarm, and the hive does not turn hostile — largely, they ignore us._
> 
> _I understand the basics of how they are converted well enough. The stories of darkspawn dragging off the females of the local species and “spewing”/feeding them are a bit... euphemistic, as you might imagine. The ones that fill the “vector” role have a morphological alteration that has turned their tongue into a sexual organ of sorts (and, in case you are curious, no, not like male genitalia, or at least not exactly like it from what I can tell, though it fulfills a similar function — the specimen I dissected was in advanced stages of decomposition, however, so my data is not the most reliable here)._
> 
> _“A” met my questions about their reproductive cycle with irascible obfuscation. I think I might have flustered him, if such a thing is possible — I asked, perfectly sincerely, whether he knew how the first brood-mother was created (I want to understand how their reproductive adaptations evolved — their changes, as a species, are remarkably fast, historically speaking). “A” took my question less as simple scientific curiosity, which it was, and more as something else. A poor attempt at exceptionally louche humor, perhaps. He colored — the part of his face that is still recognizably human, anyway, is capable of erythema._
> 
> _I have gotten used to my unlikely host’s idiosyncrasies in the past weeks, but his stubbornness over this aspect puzzles me. He is forthcoming with information otherwise — in fact, I have the distinct impression he rather enjoys our talks. He seeks me out more frequently, and I suspect that he may be a little lonely, now that his companion left. I am not sure exactly what they were to each other._
> 
> _This work is much more pleasant — not so different from my previous occupation. If I had known that my time as a vet in industrial ag (it is late, and I do not have the energy to explain — I will in another letter, later) would lend transferable skills for dealing with darkspawn… well. The universe is an ironic place._
> 
> _I hope you are alive, still._

That is it for today. I find myself in the awkward situation of wanting to reach to Cousland through the pages, to warn her, to point to the trail she leaves between her words — futile as such an exercise might be. I know how this ends, dear reader, but I presume you will read her account in sequence, as I once did. I wonder whether you already see, in the text, the germinating seeds of catastrophe. I wonder, too, whether whoever might one day read my own account will feel the same about where it likely leads. I cannot see around the bend of my own life, but I know what road I am on well enough. Mages do not live out a long and quiet existence in a place like the Kirkwall Circle. Nor do Tranquil.

On most days, my likely lack of future bothers me little.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Grief, post-war, PTSD, abandonment

**9 Firstfall, 9:32 Dragon**

I am afraid that I must impose on your goodwill once again, my hypothetical reader, for I lack trustworthy interlocutors, and this I must confide to someone, lest it scrambles me. Of all the terrors of this place, madness has always been the most pressing. I do not fear death — if Tranquility did not cure me of this concern, what led up to it should have.

And yet.

I did not see the possible connection — not until I undertook this project of transcription. My first read-through of Cousland’s account lent a vague pang of recognition, nothing more. A coincidence, I thought. A perverse one, to be sure, but I am used to the universe’s perversity. Now, re-reading these words and committing them to paper, I cannot unsee it, and the implications terrify me beyond what I can put into words.

Understand, patient reader, that for someone in my position there is no horror greater than hope.

This world is no darker than the one I left behind, though the darkness of mine overtook us more swiftly, ahead of our ability to plan. Perhaps others were more prescient, but Isaac and I had assumed — wrongly — that our modest wealth and respective social positions would make us immune. We were outside of politics — he, a mathematician, I, a linguist. Our social circle included people who could have exerted influence on our behalf, had we asked. And, towards the end, we did not just ask. We begged.

I was pregnant when the war began. I delivered in the midst of an air-raid, to the wail of sirens, three weeks ahead of time. An easy birth, and a healthy little girl, despite everything. I had named her Esther, for Isaac’s mother. I say _I_ named her because by then Isaac had been taken. At the time, I harbored idiotic hopes — that he would be pleased with my choice once we were reunited.

I never saw him again.

I do not remember the face of the man who arranged our departure to Switzerland, my Esther and I, though I do remember his name. I paid for that train ride with the last of what we had left. The nunnery was high in the Alps, a landscape so blindingly beautiful I dreamt of its glory for years after. Every time, I woke from such visions with a howl on my lips, even when the agonies of separation — small, pedestrian things like the tightness of breasts full of milk that had to be drained in what felt like some beastly horror (I do not think I can convey to you the sense of powerlessness that comes with such things, I am still unable to find a term for them), the infection that set in and nearly killed me (I still sometimes wish it had), the other indignities I will spare you — had burned through me.

But Esther would be safe. As long as I returned — and collaborated — Esther would be safe.

Enough. I wish, kind reader, that I could query you on this, and that you would offer me some modicum of reassurance. Senna, you are seeing things, you would tell me. Forget this conspiratorial thinking — it cannot be the same woman. A coincidence, nothing more.

 **Journal Entry 7** **(Page bears some water damage)**

> _L,_
> 
> _I have received your letter, at last, though it has been two months since you sent it — longer for my response to get to you, I suppose._
> 
> _I do not know what to say. I won’t burden you with efforts to change your mind. I know you believe you are doing this for my benefit, and I imagine my “whys” will lend the same reserved response. A waste of ink, then. I will, as per your request, continue my updates to you — yes, keeping records is paramount. I would have done so regardless, but I am grateful for your willingness to remain their recipient._
> 
> _I will send a separate note regarding my research. For now, while I won’t advocate on my behalf, I will offer one piece of advice, if you can bear hearing it. That your Wardenly duties (or, more likely, the politics in which you inevitably got yourself involved) make you believe that your best course of action is to sever all ties, then do what you must, but don’t you dare cut Anora off. Even for her own protection. Find a way._
> 
> _All I have of my mother is the name she left me. I do not know the history of that name, nor that of the woman who gave it to me. The orphanage had many other children like me who had even less than that for their inheritance — I bore mine proudly into a family that accepted it, along with me. I bore it across worlds, and I bore it still, secretly, when Lady Cousland asked me to step into her shoes and leave with Duncan in her stead. I suppose it is fortuitous that our initials match — it cuts down on the confusion when a signature is required._
> 
> _I had a comfortable life, and a peaceful one — thanks to this woman I never met, who left me with a name. I know why she did what she did. Still, I cannot forgive her loss._
> 
> _You are not in her situation, no matter how dire things feel at the moment. Think on that._
> 
> _I remain yours, despite everything else._
> 
> _-EC._
> 
>  


End file.
